Framed
by Shychick
Summary: Albert is framed for a terrible crime, and loses everything. How will he ever find the light again?
1. Nightmare

**This is the first chapter of my AtFM story. NO SLASH; just lots of brotherly fluff between Albert and D'Artagnan, who I blame btamamura for. ;)**

 **This story is going to be very dark, I warn you.**

* * *

"I don't like it," D'Artagnan was murmuring through a mouthful of spaghetti bolognese. "I don't like it at all."

He was not so deep in thought as to miss his smallest comrade's questioning look. "Oh no, Albert, dear chap!" he quickly clarified. "I don't mean dinner. I mean how it's been so quiet these days. Too quiet, if you ask me. We haven't had any problems with Milady du Winter and the Cardinal for weeks! As for the Cardinal's guards, nothing beyond their typical schoolboy antics when we pass by each-other in the streets, the jealous cowards."

"Well, you do have a point," Albert granted from where he sat beside him, as the rest of the Musketeers nodded in agreement. "But aren't you happy that there hasn't been any trouble?"

D'Artagnan shook his head with a sigh. "Oh, I don't know. Don't get me wrong- I'm glad they haven't been disrupting the King and Queen's peace of mind with their nefarious schemes, but you know me, Albert. I'm a man of action! I love adventure, challenge, the thrill of battle!" His hand instinctively flew to the hilt of his sword, until remembering at the last second Albert's rule about drawing at the supper table- especially in his workshop. "Besides," he added in a suspicious undertone, "no news isn't necessarily good news. How do we know this isn't just the calm before the storm?"

"D'Artagnan is right, you know," Porthos spoke up. "This is most unlike them."

"No fuss is a sign of the enemy at its most dangerous," rhymed Aramis.

"Not unlike a rattlesnake," Athos said.

"My friends, I am sure nobody here is underestimating them," Albert told them. "But we're the King's Musketeers- ever-alert and ready for anything. Doubtless this has crossed the Captain's mind too, but as he has not mentioned it, I doubt he is overly-concerned. I know he has great faith in us, too."

Porthos heartily struck the table, creating a thunderclap of vibration that very nearly upset the crockery. "Well said, Albert! I'll drink to that!"

"Still," D'Artagnan pressed, folding his arms in contemplation, "I wish there was a way we could know what's what for certain. Not knowing… it makes me on edge. I've never had much patience for the waiting game."

"Her Majesty has always been our best source of inside information," Albert reminded him. "Since we haven't heard anything from her, that tells me they are deliberately lying low. It may very well be that they're waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, seeking to catch us off-guard."

"If that's so, then they're the ones at a tactical disadvantage," Aramis laughed.

"Fair enough, but I'd sure like to coax the truth out of them with my sword," said D'Artagnan heatedly, moving to draw again before Albert stopped him with a stern look.

The rest of the evening passed smoothly with no more talk of the enemy. D'Artagnan spoke of a lady in town whose eye he had caught during patrol last week, utterly convinced that she couldn't keep her sights off him since. ("Who are you trying to convince, D'Artagnan? Us or you?" Aramis teased). Porthos started to tell an off-color joke he had picked up from a tavern, but stopped and suggested with a smirk that it may not be for their youngest friend's ears- to which Albert had good-naturedly replied "Uh, thank you, Porthos, but you haven't forgotten I _am_ over 18, right?" Athos just dozed.

Finally, around midnight, the town crier could be heard along with a distant splash.

"I really don't envy that fellow his job," D'Artagnan remarked, shaking his head.

"Last call for seconds," Albert announced. He chuckled in their hefty comrade's direction. "Or thirds, in Porthos' case."

The others politely declined. "My tastebuds are all for it, but my stomach doth protest too much, methinks," Aramis declared in a falsetto. Evidentally, the wine was starting to get to him.

The five Musketeers filed out of the workshop, and headed to de Treville's mansion. Albert's friends thanked him again for the meal, goodnights were exchanged, and D'Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos headed for the room they shared.

But before D'Artagnan could enter, the petite blonde said almost timidly, "Hey, D'Artagnan, could I have a quick word with you?"

"Oh? Of course, Albert," D'Artagnan agreeably replied, looking a little surprised. He turned back to the room. "I'll be right there, lads, don't wait-"

He was interrupted by a chorus of loud snores, the rest already in bed.

"-Up," D'Artagnan finished flatly. "Oh well, shall we talk in your room, Albert?"

Once inside, Albert shut his door behind them. "What's up?" D'Artanan inquired.

Albert motioned for D'Artagnan to have a seat. "Look, the thing is," he began, once his friend made himself comfortable in the chair by his fireplace, "I wasn't entirely truthful tonight."

"How so, Albert?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Albert said "I- this isn't easy to say." He inhaled. "I actually am more worried than I let on."

"About the Cardinal being up to something? Well, why didn't you say anything, Albert?" the slightly-older male asked, raising an eyebrow.

Albert lowered himself onto his bed, staring into his lap. "I guess I didn't wish to cause undue alarm. I mean… you all seem to look to me as the calm one, the voice of reason. For the strength of the team, I didn't want my emotions to get in the way of logic."

"Albert." D'Artagnan's tone was soft. "That's silly. As you say, we are a team. It's true that you're the most rational and level-headed of us, but you're still human. None of us will ever think any less of you if you have concerns. You should always feel free to share your fears with the rest of us. We're friends and comrades, all on the same side for the same cause. Our motto is _All for one and one for all_ , is it not?"

Albert nodded with a small smile. "Perhaps I was being silly," he agreed. "I just figured that if I said how much it's been eating at me, you might go 'Oh dear, if Albert's concerned, then something _must_ be really wrong.' I very much want to believe that there's no great danger in the air, at least nothing worse than usual." He became silent then.

"Albert, _is_ there something you know that the rest of us don't?"

"Nothing beyond a very bad feeling, a great sense of unease. If it were anything more, you can be certain I would never keep such things from you. But…"

"What is it, my friend? Please, Albert, talk to me."

"I'm afraid you will think it's childish."

"Nonsense! And anyway, so what? You're among friends. We may tease each-other a lot, but we would never judge or ostracize one of our own. You might feel better if you get it off your chest; whatever it is, you're not any less of a man or a Musketeer. Do you understand me, Albert?"

A broken sigh escaped Albert. His hands moved to either side of him, fingers curling in and digging into the blanket. "I've been having these nightmares."

"Nightmares?"

Albert nodded, still refusing to make eye-contact. "It's always the same. The five of us are out on patrol, and we run into the Cardinal's guards. Fighting ensues, as usual. Only, unlike in reality, there's something very different about the guards. They're… _dead_ s _erious_ ," he whispered. "The look in their eyes is truly frightening. I am ashamed to say this, dear D'Artagnan, but…"

It was only then that his peripheral vision informed him of D'Artagnan's presence right next to him, waiting patiently. He finally looked up to him with bright, blurry sapphire orbs, and finished, "You're all losing. _Horribly_. And for whatever reason, I am helpless as a kitten; I try to rush in and assist you, but I literally can't move a muscle. It's like I'm frozen on the spot. Worse, I try to call out to you or yell for help, but my jaws won't even work! All I can do is watch as my friends are- and then," he continued in choked tones, barely conscious of the tears streaming down his face, "and then, the next thing I know, everyone- everything- is gone. Nothing but darkness all around. Not like at night, but there is something wicked about this darkness. Sheer emptiness, more hallow than the deepest voids of space! Like before God created the heavens and the earth. I was completely alone, existing in what I knew was non-existence. I felt… trapped, not knowing where the darkness began or ended. And it's cold, so cold. All I can do is scream and scream, knowing that nobody will ever hear me."

Albert was silent once more. After nearly a full minute passed, D'Artagnan asked in soft horror, "Oh, Albert… how long have you been suffering these nightmares?"

Albert shrugged. "About a month."

"Every night?"

"Yes… it's gotten so that I'm afraid to go to sleep, so I've been immersing myself in my inventions even more than usual. But sleep always takes hold of me in the end, usually when I don't see it coming."

"And you've never come to any of us about it, not even the Captain?"

"Like I said, I didn't think it important. But…" He trembled, despite himself, and suddenly cried out " _Damnit, I just want them to stop_! I'm so scared, D'Artagnan! Something's going to happen, I can feel it! What if- w _hat if_ -"

D'Artagnan drew the little man close to him. Albert did not resist; on the contrary, he felt warm and safe in his best friend's arms, and contented himself to quietly release his emotions against him. "Hey, it's going to be ok, Albert," he whispered, his tone full of love. "Upon my word as a Musketeer and a D'Artagnan. None of us are leaving you, do you hear? Nothing is ever going to tear us apart. And whatever happens in the future, we'll face it together. We've got each-other's backs, and because of that, we will _always_ prevail. You are never alone, Albert."

Albert sniffled. "Thank you, D'Artagnan. You don't know how much that means to me."

D'Artagnan didn't return to his own quarters that night. He lay beside Albert until cock-crow, guarding him as they both slept. Albert was the first to fall asleep, his relaxed breathing a great comfort to D'Artaganan.


	2. Friends To the End?

**Get ready. This chapter gets DARK, and the next chapter will be darker still, and so on. I'm so sorry. It seems the more I make my favorite characters suffer, the more I love them.**

 **This chapter was originally going to be much longer, but I've decided to split the rest into a separate chapter. I hope to get it up soon, but my poor** _ **Inside Out**_ **story needs lovin' too.**

 **This story is dedicated to** **btamamura** **and** **Cutesigma0426aFan** , **for getting me into the series and the entire** _ **Musketeers**_ **franchise.**

* * *

Albert rose with all the energy of the sun- warm, bright, and ready to spread his zest for life near and far. _Yes, I have a feeling that today will be much better,_ he thought with a deep inhale. He stretched and faced out his window toward the dawn, returning beam for beam.

Humming, Albert returned to his bed to make it, and his eyes fell on a note:

 _Morning, sleepy-head!_

 _You looked so peaceful, I didn't have the heart to disturb you. Frankly, it did my heart good to see you resting. We'll meet you in the courtyard for training. Take your time._

 _P.S. I shan't tell the others about what we discussed. That is your decision._

"That's right, D'Artagnan stayed with me last night. God bless him…" Albert murmured.

He made his bed, got into his uniform, and hurried downstairs for breakfast. "I think I'll eat in the dining-room this morning. Sometimes I wonder if I spend too much time in my workshop. I don't want the others to start thinking I'm anti-social. Now then, what sounds good? Hmm… oatmeal it is!"

The empty dining-room seemed larger than ever to the petite man. "Oh… I guess they all ate already," he said quietly, remembering the note.

Captain de Treville kept a small house-keeping staff, but Albert didn't want to disturb the cook after he had already finished. He was content to prepare his own meal. He fixed his oatmeal, opting to add honey and blueberries as a treat. They were just as fresh as could be hoped for, and his mouth watered in anticipation. Bowl in hand, he left the kitchen and returned to the dining-room.

However, it did not taste quite as satisfactory as he hoped, he realized as he sat at the table meant for a much larger party than which presently occupied it. The flavor was all there, but something was still missing.

The sands of the hourglass on the fireplace mantle seemed unusually loud.

Sighing, Albert found himself wishing that he had eaten outside. He quickly finished up, and hurried to meet with his friends in the courtyard.

"Ah, Albert!" D'Artagnan said, spotting him in the middle of a jump-rope exercise. "Excellent."

Albert's mood immediately perked up again. "Good morning, D'Artagnan! Golly, it's not like me to sleep past six," he chuckled. Indeed, he was usually the first to rise. "How embarrassing."

"Not at all, Albert," D'Artagnan dismissed. "So, I trust you slept well?"

D'Artagnan surely knew the answer as well as he, but Albert deeply appreciated that he asked. "The best I have in a long time," he sighed, sapphire meeting chocolate-brown. "Thank you, D'Artagnan. Seriously. I can't even- I mean- _thank you_. You didn't have to, yet you-"

The older Musketeer smiled at Albert's clear loss of words. Letting the rope fall, he gently interrupted with a hand upon his shoulder, "It's quite all right, lad. Every word I spoke last night was God's truth. I'm just glad to see you back to your cheerful self. And I daresay," he added, "you look even better than normal, which is saying something."

"I do feel fantastic!" Albert agreed. He grinned. "In fact, I'll bet you can't keep up with me for at least ten laps around the yard."

D'Artagnan smirked, never one to back down from a challenge- even made in good fun. "Oh? Make that an additional forty rounds, and you're on!"

"Less talk, more action, old man!"

"I'll _old man_ you, cheeky- hey, no fair getting a head start!" D'Artagnan took off after him.

"Uh-oh, I'm in for it now!" came the answering chuckle.

The original Three Musketeers- Aramis and Athos held the ends of the jump-ropes for Porthos while he skipped- paused in their double-dutch contest. "I say, look at Albert go," Athos remarked, having been facing backwards anyway- as usual.

"I never realized Albert was so spunky," the soft-spoken blonde said.

"Almost like he took a swig of that energy elixir the Cardinal slipped the King that time," chimed in Porthos.

They resumed their activity. " _Candy, candy in a dish, how many pieces do you wish? 1, 2, 3…_ "

Eventually, D'Artagnan caught up to Albert. "Got you!" he cried, tackling him. They tumbled to the ground, producing a hybrid of grunts and laughter.

"Ah, well, perhaps I let you catch up," Albert teased, but his breathless voice gave him away. His hat lay beside him, where it had been knocked.

"All right, no more mercy!" D'Artagnan grabbed Albert, and began to administer a noogie.

"H-hey, cut it out! D'Artagnan!"

"Serves you right, forcing yourself to suffer in silence like that."

 _He's right. Perhaps I really don't give my dear friends enough credit_. _How can I ever let them know just how much they mean to me, especially D'Artagnan?_ "Look out, a Cardinal's guard!" Albert fibbed, thrusting a finger behind the Gascon.

D'Artagnan immediately dropped Albert, leaped to his feet, and drew his sword. "Where's the villain?" he cried, looking in every direction.

"Ahem." Captain de Treville stood before his youngest Musketeers. They sprang to attention immediately, but not before making themselves more presentable. Naturally, their uniforms and hair had gotten a tad rumpled.

"Our apologies, sir." Albert blushed, though relieved to see that he wore a countenance more of amusement than displeasure.

Treville shook his head as the other three hastened to converge. "That's all right, gentlemen." The lineup complete, he continued, "Now then, time to go on patrol. Get out there, and keep the streets of Paris safe."

"Very good, sir!" the Musketeers chorused.

* * *

"Well," cried one of the Cardinal's guards as the Musketeers strolled into view in the middle of the marketplace, "if it isn't the King's Muskrats!" His cohorts chortled derisively.

D'Artagnan snorted. "Really, is that supposed to be an insult? Because that just might be the stupidest thing I've heard from you lot, and that's saying something."

Aramis flashed their self-appointed leader a grin. "Well done on keeping that temper in check, D'Artagnan." The others applauded, and D'Artagnan could not refrain from smiling a bit smugly.

The guard who had spoken looked crestfallen. "It… it was supposed to be a play on words," he explained with a shrug. "Musketeers, rats? Don't you get it?"

It was the Musketeers' turn to display mirth. "Of course!" Porthos said. "We're laughing, aren't we? But I seem to notice, gentlemen, that you in fact are not. Perhaps you're the ones confused here?"

The guards glowered, not appreciating the joke being on them.

D'Artagnan grunted as he felt somebody elbow him from behind. He glared after the weedy guard as he passed him whistling, idly tossing a freshly-purchased apple into the air. "Oh, my bad!" The fruit landed in his palm again, and he helped himself to a noisy bite.

"My bad? Miscreant, what is that supposed to mean?" D'Artaganan sputtered, bristling. "I demand satisfaction! Are you not familiar with the social grace known as an apology? I'd wager it's what the doctor additionally gave your mother upon handing you over!"

The Three Musketeers roared again, and even Albert could not suppress a smirk. _I must admit, that is clever… even if his new reputation as a man of thick skin was short-lived. Well, I don't suppose what the chances are of this ending peacefully…_

"Is that so?" Joined by his comrades, the guard unsheathed his sword. "Then have at you, bespawlers!"

"Called it," Albert muttered to himself, gripping his signature weapon. "Perhaps I'd better step in before things get out-of-hand. These fights in public only put the citizens at risk."

But before Albert could hurry to the forefront to help, a loud " _Pssst_!" reached his ears, close enough to warrant his attention. He stopped, turning around to see a woman standing two feet from him. The majority of her face was veiled in a green shawl.

She beckoned to Albert with unmistakable urgency. Albert blinked, and questioningly pointed to himself. The strange woman bobbed her head repeatedly, motioned again, and gesticulated down a narrow strip behind her that lead away from the market. She took off at a brisk pace, not stopping as she spared a single backward glance to confirm his presence.

"Madame, please wait up! I'm right behind you," Albert called after her, quick to follow. _This lady is clearly in need of immediate assistance. Something must be very wrong; she dares not even call attention to herself._

The woman continued down the street, and it was all the petite man could do to keep up. They hurried on for several minutes, she occasionally making sure he was still there.

"Madame, I have been keeping an eye out, and I don't believe anybody is following us," Albert panted. Indeed, they seemed to be getting further away from any people. "Can you still not safely say what the matter is, or at least slow down?"

His only answer was the tempo of footfalls against gravel, like a frantic heartbeat, as they only seemed to pick up. _Well, at least I can't say I haven't gotten in much exercise today!_

Albert saw her duck around a corner. He hastened to join her… and paused, realizing that they had reached a dead end. They were in an alley, between two rows of shops. Chips of brick generously littered the pavement, proof of time and the elements. A barrel stood a few feet away, under a dirty, cracked window.

But wait a minute. Where did the woman go?

"Hello? Miss?"

Before Albert could complete his next thought, he was locked in an iron grip, and a strong-odoured rag was clamped over his nose and mouth. _Chloroform!_ He struggled and grunted vehemently, but dizziness soon overpowered his fight-or-flight instincts, clouding his senses with rolling darkness. In five seconds, not less, he was out.

Milady de Winter shoved him to the ground. "Too easy! I almost miss the taste of his sauce. Pity he'll never have the chance to share it with anyone ever again," the right-hand woman of Cardinal Richelieu mockingly lamented. She gave a loud whistle.

If Albert were awake, he would have surely recognized the man who appeared as the shortest of the Cardinal's guards, no bigger than him. Only, curiously, he wore a Musketeer's uniform- save the sword. "With all due respect, Milady, I'm not a bloody horse," he grumbled in response to her summons.

"Shut up, and put this on!" The treacherous woman thrust a blond wig at him.

"Aw, but Milady, it's too hot!"

"You know the plan. Or shall I inform His Eminence that you refuse to cooperate? Perhaps he'll let you join our friend here in-"

The little guard was already nodding. "All right, all right!" He obeyed.

Milady analyzed the final picture carefully. "Excellent!" she hissed, circling him and looking him up and down. "Those other fools won't suspect a thing. This time, we've got them!" She frowned sternly. "Now, I trust you have no reservations about what needs to be done?"

"Trust me to know my orders, Milady," the guard stiffly replied.

"I should hope so." She removed Albert's sword from his scabbard, and handed it to him. "Do _not_ fail."

The guard saluted, and hurried off.

Albert showed as much sign of life as a rag-doll when Milady delivered a sharp kick to his temple. "The players are set," she laughed viciously. "As for you, my little star and Musketeer, your time in the spotlight will come very shortly."

* * *

"There you are, Albert!" Porthos greeted as the small blonde came into view.

"Ah, sorry about that. I just spotted a woman who needed assistance. It's all good now, though," the disguised enemy stuttered in a barely-passable imitation of their friend's lilt.

Athos smiled. "You missed a jolly good scuffle! Well, it was rather they who missed out… on your special sauce, that is!"

"I fear you weren't needed this time, Albert," D'Artagnan said cheerfully. "It was almost too easy, actually! The base cowards- you should've seen them flee like curs with their tails between their legs! While Porthos, Athos, and Aramis held off one apiece, it was one-against-two for me. Naturally, I could've taken on twenty blind-folded, but it was fine sport all the same."

'Albert' could only nod.

"I say, are you quite all right?" D'Artagnan inquired with a note of concern. "You- you seem a bit off, somehow."

"Yes, come to think of it, you don't much sound like yourself. Are you coming down with something?" added Aramis.

"I'm fine," the guard said waspishly. He hastily cleared his throat, remembering his instructions: _Say as little as possible. Don't speak unless absolutely necessary._

D'Artagnan frowned at his 'friend's' uncharacteristic tone. "Are you sure, Albert? Or is this about what you shared with me last night? If so, I implore you to remember our discussion."

"You deaf or unusually stupid? I _said_ I'm fine!"

A look of great shock, mingled with hurt, crossed the hot-blooded youth's face. If it were any other man, even the Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan would have drawn his sword without a moment's hesitation. But this was Albert, whom he looked upon as a younger brother, who was never deliberately rude to anybody- not even their enemies- and rarely got angry. "Very well, fair enough," he muttered, turning away.

The others were no less scandalized at this display, but dared not press it. Something was truly bothering their youngest comrade, and clearly D'Artagnan knew something they did not. They glanced at each-other, silently vowing to approach D'Artagnan on the matter at a more appropriate time and place.

Yet, it was very curious, they conveyed in a show of shrugs… Albert had seemed so lively and playful only that morning.

The five continued their patrol in silence. Suddenly, Aramis declared, "As I live and breathe, gentlemen, I do believe I spy D'Artagnan's lady fair."

"Pity she doesn't know he exists!" Porthos quipped, following Aramis's gaze toward the flower stand, where the _belle_ subject of their jesting examined a row of carnations.

"All right, you tongue-wagging rascals! Step aside, and you may learn something from a well-versed Gascon."

 _It's now or never,_ the little man thought. He said to D'Artagnan amiably, "Ah, but she certainly is one to die for, my friend." He drew his- or, Albert's- sword in a salute. "Godspeed, then!"

The others repeated the gesture, unified in their support. " _One for all_ -"

" _And all for one_ ," the interloper finished solo, tonelessly.

In a swift movement, he plunged his weapon straight into D'Artagnan's chest.


	3. Open Your Eyes, See It's Not a Dream

Pandemonium.

Screams. Gasps. Fleeing. Fainting (the latter, mostly women-folk).

While most of the witnesses with families, and men with their ladies, hastened to remove themselves from the sudden danger of the marketplace, some citizens remained transfixed in a state of gaping horror. Still others boldly stayed out of the simultaneous shock, intrigue, and curiosity borne of such an unheard-of spectacle as blatant Musketeer-on-Musketeer violence, holding their breath in anticipation of what might transpire next, as if at some intense sporting tournament; within 24 hours, this would be the talk of Paris, and each man envisioned themselves being the one to impart the tale to anybody who would believe them in all the alcohol-fueled haunts in town and in the streets.

As for the Musketeers, D'Artagnan collapsed upon a knee, agony written all over his quickly-paling face. He gasped and grunted, clutching a shaking hand to his chest, which was already stained a rich crimson from the wound rapidly blooming in the center.

He had been struck to the quick, pierced through the heart… literally and figuratively. But even his physical suffering could not begin to compete with the sheer astonishment and betrayal he now knew; if his wound ran deep, this ran a hundred-times deeper. Even if he could speak, he would have no breath with which to form the words on the surface of his tongue and mind:

 _Albert, my friend… why? Oh, why?_

" _S'BLOOD! ALBERT, WHAT HAVE YOU_ DONE?" screamed Aramis, the most gentle-spoken and religious of them all. " _GOD SAVE US, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE_?"

The Three Musketeers rushed to the aid of their fallen comrade. Aramis whipped out his handkerchief, and pressed it tight against D'Artagnan's chest to stop the blood-flow.

"Gentlemen, I'm afraid he's fading fast!" Athos exclaimed hoarsely. "Mark you his ghastly complexion!" Athos, himself, had turned dreadfully white in that instant. "He's turning cold!"

"Friend D'Artagnan, hang on! You will be all right, upon the word of your dearest comrades!" Porthos cried.

"His pulse! _Oh, his pulse_! At this rate, he's got minutes!"

If D'Artagnan hadn't been safely supported in his friend's arms, he would've hit the ground with his final ounce of strength spent. It was miraculous to the Musketeers that he held out even this long.

"He's fainted! If we don't get him to a doctor, he's done for!" Athos declared. "Aramis, fetch help immediately. We'll stay with D'Artagnan!"

Aramis, who had been monitoring D'Artagnan's vitals, managed in a quiet, trembling sob, "That won't be necessary, Athos. He's- he's _gone_."

" _What_?" Porthos roared, his voice cracking.

"No," Athos whispered. For once, his eyes were wide as saucers.

"Aramis… are you _sure_?"

" _No… no_! Dear D'Artagnan!"

All this time, the little guard stood idly by, observing the scene with the indifferent air of a man just passing the time. _Come on, Milady, where are you? They'll slice me to ribbons before I get that signal! This is getting awkward here._

It was then, in fact, that they remembered 'Albert'. " _You… YOU_ …" Porthos thundered, drawing in a sun-kissed flash of steel, as if the heavens themselves blessed him in his mad thirst for revenge. His entire bulk shook with uncontrollable rage and grief.

 _Any minute now, Milady!_

"Less hasty, Porthos," Athos declared, still sounding shaken- helped, doubtless, by the sudden turning of the one they believed was once their friend. "We shall take him before the Captain."

"You want to show this little snake-in-the grass mercy? Athos _, he slew D'Artagnan in cold blood!_ He's a traitor and a murderer! Look at him, standing there smirking without even a hint of remorse! He must pay, I tell you!" A vein in his forehead bulged alarmingly, and he bellowed at the smaller man, "Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself, vile wretch?"

"Athos is right, Porthos!" Aramis said, clearly with tremendous difficulty. "We all saw what happened, but we do know that- that Albert has been a comrade far longer than he's been a traitor."

"Aramis! He just demonstrated, in one fell swoop, that he's _never_ been one of us! We have been deceived all this time, don't you understand that?"

Aramis shouted, "And what you must understand, Porthos, is that if we act rashly, we will be murderers too! We shall lose our titles and our freedom… perhaps even our lives." He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. "We'll take him to the Captain. His fate _will_ be decided, and his days as a Musketeer finished… one way or the other, of that we can be certain. Athos, seize him! Porthos, take up our good friend."

A feminine voice suddenly rang out through the crowds. "MURDER! MURDER IN THE MARKET! IT WAS THE SMALLEST OF THE KING'S MUSKETEERS! SEE THE BLOODY SWORD IN THE VILLAIN'S HANDS! WE ALL SAW HIM! GET THE TRAITOR! SEIZE HIM! IN THE NAME OF HIS MAJESTY, DON'T LET HIM GET AWAY!"

 _Finally! Well, that's my cue!_ The guard threw down Albert's sword, shot a defiant look at the Musketeers for good measure, and took off for the main street.

Perhaps it was that cry that finally snapped the citizens out of their stunned reprieve. In times of great emergency, the blood is easily aroused, emotions burst like fireworks, and the hunger for justice roars. All else is forgotten. In short, not a citizen, merchant, or Musketeer was left behind in the pursuit. Only poor D'Artagnan remained, and remained ignorant of all that transpired.

"I timed this all perfectly!" Milady cackled as she thrust the still-unconscious Albert from the sack she carried. "That drug should wear off any minute now. A very potent drug it is too, so the apothecary told me, the strongest of its kind with some very interesting effects. But I have to hurry, the guard won't hold them off forever."

She reached down and slapped him several times in the face, none-too-gently. "Wakey, wakey, little Musketeer." Upon his first signs of revival, she quickly hid.

Albert moaned softly, sapphire eyes fluttering open. "Oh, _sacre bleu_ , my head. What has happened to me?" he murmured, struggling to first rise to his knees, then his feet. He somehow managed after a full minute, though still shaking like a leaf. His legs might as well have been made of rubber. "I'm so dizzy, feel weak all over. I can't remember a thing. I was in the marketplace, on patrol with the others… and then… no, my mind is a blank. I am sure I fainted, though."

He looked around. "This is the market… but where is everybody? The place is totally deserted! But only a minute ago- wait, how long was I out?" Clamping his head between his hands until the spinning at last stopped, Albert took slow, deep breaths. "Ok, that is a little better. There's something very strange going on here, anyway. I must find-"

Albert's sights suddenly fell on a scene to freeze over his young blood, mere feet away. " _D'Artagnan_?" He gasped, sprinting over to the man lying stone-still on his back, head tilted so that it rested on his left shoulder. "D'ARTAGNAN!"

No nightmare from the deepest bowels of hell could have prepared him for this.

Throwing himself down next to his friend, Albert slowly reached out a hand to his ashen face. His eyes widened at not only this, but how cold he felt to the touch. He pressed a finger to his neck until he found the right spot, and was greeted with nothing. The same went for D'Artagnan's right wrist, which lay closest to Albert. His chest, upon which his other gloved hand lay- sticky and red with the substance of life- did not rise.

 _A dream. It is just another dream. A lucid dream, to be sure; I have heard of this kind. That would explain everything. I am still asleep in bed, and D'Artagnan is still right there with me. All we have to do is wake up! Maybe if he awakes, then I will too._

"D'Artagnan?" Albert softly spoke, a desperate tremor inserting itself into his lungs. "D'Artagnan, _please_ …" He shook him roughly by the shoulder. "You must get up, my friend." But the brunette remained oblivious to his pleading, and he continued with ever-increasing urgency, "D'Artagnan! We- we have to go home." His mind raced, and it seemed he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears; it thundered from all around him, deafeningly. "A Cardinal's guard… the Queen approaches… spaghetti's on… _one for all, and all for one_?" He slammed his fists to the ground, screaming, " _Damn it_ , _just wake up! It's a dream, wake up, wake up, PLEASE WAKE UP_!"

Panic at last broke through in full-force. Albert jumped to his feet, and ran some feet away. "HELP!" he screamed, looking around wildly. There had to be somebody about! "SOMEBODY!" He paused for only the briefest of minutes, listening, praying for some sign of blessed acknowledgement. "ANYBODY!"

His voice cracked one last time, all but failing him. " _Help_ …" He fell upon his knees, cruel reality sinking into his chest like a piercing icicle. An ocean of tears was already gushing forth, and he felt his remainder of strength give out. Sobbing from the depths of his soul, he crawled back to D'Artagnan's side and buried himself against him, under his arm, as though he might stay there forever.

After an indefinable amount of time passed, a feminine gasp rose from behind him. Albert started and turned around, eyes wide. They were blurred over, unable to make out the form of his savior. But then the all-too-familiar _quack_ followed, and he hazarded a guess: "Milady?" He blinked away the pools that continued to overflow, just enough to confirm her presence, and experienced a bizarre surge of hope. "Please, you must help! He's been fatally wounded! But there still might be time-"

"Well, well. So, the murderer dares return to the scene of the crime! Very bold... or very foolish. But you are the last person I would imagine capable of something like this, especially to one of his own! And stabbing him in broad daylight, in a public place, no less!" Ruby lips curled into a cat-like smile. "Little musketeer, I don't know whether to be more shocked or impressed. You've accomplished what our guards never could."

"What?" Albert stammered hoarsely. "Milady, what are you saying? Please, time is short here! I beg of you, get help! I know we are enemies, I know you hate us- hate _me_ \- but I appeal to the milk of human kindness I also know you must possess deep down. Surely even you wouldn't leave a good man to his untimely death, would you? Oh, have mercy on me as I would you!" He wept passionately. "I will do _anything_ if you'll only help us, as God as my witness."

Milady tossed her raven-black tresses behind her. "Isn't this delicious? The oh-so-clever Fifth Musketeer, helpless as a lamb to the slaughter, begging and sniveling at my feet." She tapped her chin. "Though I must admit, it would be far more enjoyable if you were innocent, but still an excellent performance. You almost managed to convince me that you genuinely care about your friend, even if I plainly saw what you did to him."

" _Shut up, SHUT UP_!" roared Albert, quaking in his boots as he rose to face her. Rage coursed through his veins, competing with his terror and grief; all three of these foreign sensations threatened to tear him apart. "You wicked, slandering demoness, how dare you even insinuate-" As he spoke, he adopted a fencing stance and reached for his sword.

"Oh, my. Lose something, have we?" Milady smirked.

Realizing his scabbard was empty, Albert cried, "My sword! But where-"

"I believe that's your sword?" Milady pointed to the blood-stained instrument abandoned only inches from D'Artagnan, where Albert had missed it.

Albert immediately recognized it. "But… but how? It cannot be," he whispered, picking it up.

"You still deny it? I suppose you're going to tell me next that you don't even remember what happened!" The she-devil grinned to herself knowingly. "How very convenient."

It was like a bolt of lightning struck the blonde where he stood. _I still can't recall a thing! Where could I have been when this took place?_

"Then, let's recap!" Milady gleefully offered with a sneer. "You stabbed your fellow Musketeer without neither warning nor provocative. The entire marketplace, including your friends, witnessed it for themselves. Dropping the guilty weapon, you fled. And like dutiful servants of the law, every last one of the witnesses bolted after you, howling for your blood. Being the slick, nimble little trickster you are, you somehow managed to give the honest mob the slip and make your way back here. Tell me, does any of this ring a bell?"

Albert was heaving a torrent of raspy, broken gasps. The sword had fallen from his grasp with a solid _clank_. His chest felt very tight and heavy, though he was furthest from a candidate for heart disease. Not that he cared a whit about his own well-being at the moment.

The cruelty of Milady's smile became more pronounced. "What will the Queen think? Goodness knows you're Her Majesty's most obedient and loyal servant. Certainly she won't think so highly of you now!"

"I won't listen to another word of this!" snarled Albert. "You know _nothing_! I can't deal with your sick lies right now!" He turned his back to her. "Get out of here, leave us in peace!"

He knelt beside D'Artagnan again, practically shielding him with his tiny body for all he was worth. "D'Artagnan, dear friend, who did this to you? I swear on my _life_ , I will find them and bring them to justice!" The tears began to fall fast again, having never truly left. " _Oh, D'Artagnan_ …" There was so much he wanted, _needed_ to say to him, yet he couldn't begin to know where to start.

Albert didn't hear the clinking of chains from behind him.

"I've already taken that liberty," hissed Milady. " _Guards_!"

Immediately, the uniformed men who seemed to converge from thin air moved in. Unprepared emotionally and mentally, Albert was more vulnerable than he had ever been in his life, no match for all five of them. Amidst protests and cries, Albert found himself trussed up within seconds, unable to move an inch. Tightly fitted around his neck was an iron collar, linked to another long chain held by a guard. " _Why_? Why are you doing this, Milady?" he piteously begged of her.

"Because the King charged His Eminence with keeping peace in Paris," Milady smugly explained, "as you know very well, and we can't have a dangerous murderer on the loose. But I should thank you, gutsy pipsqueak. You've single-handedly cut down the King's Musketeers for us- by dispatching this one, and then delivering yourself into our hands. I really don't know why you came back; it's almost as if you wanted to be caught. I suppose you just got _too_ cocky this time, as the evidence is very strong against you. But now without you two, those other boobies won't have a leg to stand on!"

She continued, pressing her advantage, "Oh, but don't worry, you won't be executed. I think the Cardinal will agree that death is far too good for you. Therefore, in the name of His Eminence, it gives me great pleasure in hereby sentencing you to the deepest, darkest cell in the Bastille… where you will never see the light of day again."

 _Oh, my friends, where are you? I know you know I could never have done this, that I would sooner take my own life than commit such treason! I need you here at my side, gentlemen. Together, we shall get to the bottom of this for D'Artagnan's sake!_ In a last-ditch effort, Albert took a deep breath and yelled the words that served as both unification and summons among them. "ONE FOR ALL…"

He was instantly silenced by the cloth securely tied over his mouth. "It's too late," Milady told him. "By this time tomorrow, the whole of Paris will know what you have done. The King will surely disband the Musketeers, on His Eminence's advice. How can he trust any of them with his own life now?"

She led the way to her coach, the guards laughing as they dragged along their bound-and-gagged prisoner. Albert craned his neck behind him as he was taken from D'Artagnan's side, refusing to look away until distance rendered them asunder for good, even after he was shoved inside the carriage.

 _For good…_

And it was then that Albert truly understood that he would never see him again.

* * *

 **See you next chapter, if you don't hate me too much by now…**


	4. Where Is the World We Had?

The fall of gravel from the Cardinal's chimney alerted His Eminence to the presence of his right-hand woman. "Is that you, Milady?" he demanded, pausing in the middle of his pacing.

"No, it's Santa Claus, sir!" came Milady's cheeky response.

"For your sake, Christmas had better be here early," growled the Cardinal as Milady tumbled into view. "I trust a month's worth of meeting and plotting incognito at the most deplorable taverns in town was worth it!"

Milady brushed soot off her dress. "Oh yes, Your Eminence!" she practically purred. "Your smallest guard dispatched the Musketeer known as D'Artagnan- the best only next to the Fifth- the once-cocky little pest was arrested for murder while everybody else was led on a wild goose-chase, and nobody is any the wiser. Everybody thinks he fled Paris; nobody will ever know that an innocent Musketeer is rotting in the Bastille!"

"And you're certain he will never escape?"

"I ordered your guards to place him under the heaviest security imaginable, sir. His blunderbuss was confiscated, and I even took the liberty of bringing you his sword to present as evidence to the King."

The Cardinal was grinning. "Very good, Milady. The King is sure to disband the Musketeers after this! But tell me, how did our little friend take it?"

"That's the icing on the cake, Your Eminence! Thanks to the drug I used on him, he doesn't remember anything after I lured him away, up until he awoke to discover his dead friend. To say he was shattered is the understatement of the century! He saw his own bloody sword beside the body. You should have seen him grovel for mercy, sir! The seeds of doubt have been planted, and he'll have plenty of time to let them flourish. He will never trouble you again!"

* * *

"Appalling! Extraordinary! Inconceivable! Outrageous! _Unthinkable_!" Louis XIII thundered, pacing in a circle and waving his fists about. "And those are just the vowels! But more to the point, _why_?"

Cardinal Richelieu said in his heaviest tone, "I share Your Majesty's sentiments, of course. Why, I myself was every bit as taken aback- if not more so- when I heard the _terrible_ news."

"And on whose evidence do you relay these most serious allegations to your king, Cardinal?" demanded the monarch. "Make no mistake, your sources had _better_ be infallible! Have you any idea of the scandal, the ramifications-"

"I assure Your Majesty, my most trustworthy agent- I mean, associate- has presented me with a full account of this morning's events. Just as I have already shared them with you, she would deem it her solemn duty to further testify. I can have her summoned in an instant, as she but awaits on Your Majesty's word as we speak."

"She, eh? And who, pray, is this woman?"

"None other than Milady de Winter, Sire, and one of Your Majesty's most devoted servants."

The King barked an order, and the Countess appeared before him in under five seconds. The Cardinal did not exaggerate; she had, in fact, been waiting outside the doors.

The sentries were cut off upon announcing her admittance. "Yes, yes, shut up!" Louis snapped, and Milady glowered inside. Richelieu, on the other hand, was delighted at the affect the story was already having on the King. Skeptical though he may be, he was at least taking it with the utmost seriousness. _So much the better to make my will yours._

Milady appeared before the King with a curtsy. "At your service, Your Majesty," she simpered.

"Yes. Now tell us, Madame, precisely what you observed."

"Well, Your Majesty, it was fortunate I happened to be in the right place at the right time. I was just browsing the marketplace, and I saw the Musketeers on patrol…"

Minutes later, Milady concluded, "…I only wish we had caught him, Sire. Alas, he proved quick as a jackrabbit and slippery as an eel! The best I can do is assure Your Majesty that His Eminence's guards shall remain ever-vigilant until he is found. He has been declared Priority One and Public Enemy Number One. The guards shall not rest until he is brought to justice, and I know I speak for the Cardinal when I vow to Your Majesty that he _will_ be captured."

"Only a vow to God is worth more, Sire," the Cardinal earnestly concurred.

Louis frowned. "Let me get this straight," he slowly began. "After this senseless and unpredictable crime was committed against one of my Musketeers, _by_ one of my Musketeers- in public, no less- the guilty party threw down his sword and fled the scene, and the entire marketplace followed in hot pursuit. My Musketeers and your guards included. And, as you both say, the cries given out prompted many others to join the chase…"

"As the good sheep, er, citizens they are," replied the Cardinal, "anxious to assist in keeping the peace in Your Majesty's fair city."

"… _And not a one of them managed to so much as intercept him before he got to the city gates_?"

Milady faltered but for only a moment. "Respectfully, Sire, this _is_ the famous Fifth Musketeer."

"Quite right!" the Cardinal added. "Your Majesty knows just how clever, resourceful, and elusive he is. Besides, if I may make so bold, is it really that farfetched? After all, you yourself have never laid eyes upon this mysterious young Musketeer. How well does Your Majesty really know him? He is practically a stranger."

"One would almost think he has something to hide, the way he seems to go out of his way to avoid meeting you, Sire," Milady chimed in.

"As sure as I am Louis the Just, I cannot deny you have a valid point," Louis reluctantly granted, "but his services to the throne, the results he has produced, speak for themselves!"

The Cardinal said smoothly, "And the dozens of witnesses will most assuredly speak for themselves, as well. Would Your Majesty prefer to first hear from my guards or your Musketeers?"

"What do you think, Cardinal?" Louis snapped. "But first- where is the murder weapon? You claim he dropped it before he ran. I trust, Madame, that you possessed the foresight to retrieve it as evidence?"

* * *

" _No_! I don't care what any of you _think_ you saw!" White and trembling, Captain de Treville's voice was soft as a brewing thunderstorm, but nonetheless a well-blended turmoil of emotions. "I absolutely refuse to believe it, and I've a good mind to permanently discharge the lot of you for daring to suggest such a ludicrous-"

"Sir, with all due respect," Aramis interrupted, his own demeanor steady but just as choked underneath, "you weren't there. You didn't see it. It happened right in front of us; we saw it with our own eyes."

" _Then there's something wrong with your eyes_!" de Treville bellowed.

Porthos blindly challenged, "Then why did he run, eh? Why did he flee Paris altogether?" If he remembered he was addressing their superior, he showed no sign of ignominy.

"Good Porthos, you agreed to let us handle this," murmured Athos, placing a steadying hand on his comrade's shoulder. He turned to de Treville and said with the utmost earnesty, "Captain, we appreciate how downright fantastic it sounds. But upon our honour, we neither lie nor exaggerate, and we most assuredly would never say such a thing if we were not so certain as to stake our lives on the matter. Had his sword- marked with D'Artagnan's own blood- not have mysteriously gone missing when we returned, we would have had proof. But we shall have all the merchants in the market attest to the crime, and round up all the citizens who were present when it happened. All of them joined us in pursuit."

But Treville seemed all but deaf to their logic. "You did well by bringing D'Artagnan's body back here, gentlemen. He shall be honored as befitting such a worthy man and Musketeer of his mettle, strength, and loyalty. I am, however, _astounded_ his own brothers-in-arms placed greater priority upon running an innocent man out of town than bringing him home much sooner, just leaving him there in the streets for God-knows-how-long! Do you call that respect? Do you call that dignity? I _never_ would have thought it conceivable of you."

And the Three Musketeers did look deeply ashamed at that. "Sir, we humbly ask forgiveness," Aramis whispered, lowering his head. Like the others, his hat remained in his hands from the moment they brought D'Artagan before their shocked and horrified captain. "At least one of us should have carried out our duty to dear D'Artagnan. Our rash behavior was indeed inexcusable."

At that moment one of the Captain's footmen hurried into the courtyard. "Sir, His Majesty urgently summons!" he announced. "He orders the presence of you _and_ the Three Musketeers."

* * *

Milady had not been exaggerating when she told Albert he was being confined to the deepest, darkest cell in the Bastille. Here in the basement, there was no window to allow for even a tease of outside light.

"Move it," snarled the Cardinal's guard leading the way. He gave a sharp yank on the chain attached to Albert's iron collar, with such force that he was nearly sent sprawling down the steep flight of stairs. Albert was devoid of any urge to resist or feelings of resentment at being treated like some dog in disgrace; his thoughts were miles away, as wild as a storm-tossed sea.

 _I couldn't even say goodbye…_

 _All a mistake…_

 _The dream… oh, merciful Lord, this can only be my nightmare. Why can't I wake up? It feels like I will be trapped in it forever!_

 _Where did it all go so wrong? Only this morning, life couldn't have been better. What is happening to me?_

 _Why is there such a gap in my memory? What really occurred between the patrol and D'Artagnan's death? Why couldn't I save him? Oh, God, I was not there for him!_

 _Wake up, Albert, just wake up! D'Artagnan, where are you? Please,_ _ **help me**_ _, wake me up before I go mad!_

 _How can I prove my innocence? I must get out of here, and help the Musketeers find this dangerous murderer! Oh, my friends, I need you! I can't do it alone, not this time._

 _But why was my sword smeared with his blood?_

 _D'Artagnan, dear friend, I know I failed you. I as good as killed you! I've brought shame to the Musketeers, I've sullied our noble motto._

 _Didn't even let me say goodbye… I never once told him how much he means to me…_

 _So much blood…_

 _Wake up, wake up, I've got to awaken sometime, WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP…_

They reached the remaining ten steps. The guard delivered a kick to Albert's spine, and he found himself face-down on the floor. He barely felt anything, despite the bruise that was already developing; if he had broken something, he didn't care. They said that pain didn't exist in dreams, but obviously only physical pain was exempt.

Without waiting for Albert to get up, the guard dragged him across the room like a limp marionette. The lantern he carried was the only source of light. The fetters wrapped around Albert's small form were removed, save the collar-and-chain, which was promptly hooked to the wall behind him. Then Albert's wrists were clamped in heavy cuffs (though, thankfully, not bound behind him), as were his ankles with the addition of a ball-and-chain.

The gag was untied, and Albert met his oppressor's face with all the desperation of a man drowning. "Please, this is all a terrible mistake! I-"

"Shaddup," said the guard, turning to leave.

"You don't understand! The Musketeers need me, the true killer is still out there! _You must believe me_!" The tremors that ripped through him were mostly unrelated to the bitter chill of his environment.

Ignoring the prisoner, the guard made his way back upstairs. The last sound Albert heard- even above his own rising cries and pleas- was the door slamming shut, followed by the _click_ of a key being turned. Like a sinister chuckle.

Alone with its prey at last, the darkness pounced.


	5. Abandoned

Darkness, darkness everywhere. Relentless, endless, uncompromising. He was trapped inside its great maw, trembling fervently from the emotional and mental lashings he'd been dealt in such a short period, as well as the raw, damp chill that served as accomplice to the void.

Just like in his dream.

Where was D'Artagnan? Why wouldn't he just awaken him?

 _Wake up, my friend, hope is here_

 _With the vengeance, we have no time to bleed_

If all this was real, Albert couldn't help but wonder… would D'Artagnan want Albert to avenge him? He didn't doubt for a minute that D'Artagnan himself would pursue and slaughter anybody who took the life of one of his comrades, especially Albert. Albert would only hope for the fever of his blood to subside and make way for reason, to prevent any more bloodshed. It wasn't Albert's way, and D'Artagnan knew that. But if he was in any position to seek out the villain, take an eye for an eye… would he? Could he? Should he?

Why was he thinking such inane things? What was wrong with him?

Well… in dreams, logic rarely applied, right? In this realm, his thoughts were free to run as untamed as the wind, even if they teetered on the edge of compromising his values and beliefs. Further proof that _he himself_ was not free. Here, madness was reason and reason was madness.

 _My only world filled with fear. I never saw the sower of the seed._

It cut into him like a blade to be accused of so heinous, so unthinkable a crime, nearly as much as losing his dearest friend… even if those who already judged and sentenced him could care less if he was guilty or not. His only consolation, his only ray of hope- which he passionately thanked God for- was that the Musketeers and Captain de Treville would stake their very lives on his innocence. His friends, who knew him better than anybody.

Until he woke up, he would simply have to be patient. They would come for him. They would help him clear his name. By now, Milady had doubtless spread the hideous lie all over Paris. Richelieu would, as she had promised, do all in his power to disgrace the name of Musketeers forever. He would have the King wrapped around his little finger. But Albert held fast to the unwavering faith he possessed of his comrades.

But what was also indisputable was his own sword discovered by D'Artagnan's body, tainted with treachery- by _somebody's_ hand. And that his mind remained as foggy as ever; in his attempt to strain the truth from it, he only achieved a splitting migraine. He felt like dough that had been stretched and thinned beyond its capacity.

Albert clasped together his cuffed hands, and prayed that D'Artagnan would eternally be at peace now. He pleaded that his brave friend had at least died in battle- the only way he would have wanted to go- rather than by some cowardly villain. _But Milady already told you how he died, didn't she? You may say she's a liar all you wish, but whose sword was that again?_

 _Ah, gentlemen, how I wish that I could be with you when you lay him to rest. And I shall, once I am free. Only, please hurry; I know that D'Artagnan's funeral must take precedence, and I would not want it any other way, but I long to just see him one more time. To honor a true friend. There is so much I never told him… oh, why?_

 _But I've no right to be there, anyway. Even if his life was not taken by my hands, the blood is still on them (like my sword) because I didn't come to his defense. I didn't fight at his side, where I belonged._

The petite blonde wept bitterly. It almost seemed impossible that he had any tears left to spare, but he knew his grief and guilt ran deeper than any of the world's oceans.

He didn't even give a thought to how much more time passed, until the luminescence prodded his eyelids. He slowly raised them, and it took several seconds to adjust to the sight of one of the Cardinal's guards, who held up a lantern.

"Please, good sir," Albert immediately exclaimed, "do the Musketeers know I am here? You must bring them to me at once!"

The guard's only response was a roar of raucous mirth that made his considerable paunch jiggle and Albert's blood run cold.

Albert opened his mouth to make another attempt, but there was a sharp _crack_ like a pistol going off. He had barely seen the guard move; for a man his size, he commanded damned fine reflexes. Albert instinctively touched a hand to his jaw, which didn't ache but rather felt numb. He repressed an urge to laugh in the guard's face and cry, _You fool, physical pain does not exist here!_

"What're you looking at, eh?" the guard snarled in pitiful explanation for his conduct. " _Who said you could even speak to me_ , _you little shit_? We ain't here to listen to yer sniveling every time we come in, izzat clear? Don't think we won't gag you again."

A small plate and bowl was set before Albert. "Anyway, 601, there's yer room-service." In reply to the bewildered look given by Albert, the guard smirked and said, "Oh, didn't you know? Once you enter the Bastille, you ain't a person no more- you're nothing but a number. Your identity, like your freedom, is dead. And that's how it's gonna be until the day _you_ die."

He reached down and snatched him by his tabard, and Albert grunted as the meager length of his neck restraint was yanked taut. "Face it, _former_ Fifth Musketeer," he hissed, "you're nothing now. You have nothing." His face was pressed so close to Albert's that Albert could make out nearly every one of his crooked, yellowing teeth. He choked on the combined stink of tobacco and alcohol.

Straightening up, the guard concluded with an ironic bow and smile, "Now then, will _Monsieur_ be wanting anything else today? Perhaps a nice bed of straw? I trust the, hehehe, accommodations aren't too tight? I daresay we've never had a guest of such renown! We offer only the best, of course!"

Once at the top of the stairs, he added, "By the way- your friends know where you are, all right. But they don't care. You think they're going to come to the aid of a treacherous murderer?"

" _No_!" Albert shrieked after his departing back. The door clanged shut, and several locks were heard clicking. " _I'm not a murderer_!"

He was a slave to the darkness once again.

Dully, he picked up the single crust of bread that was left for him, careful not to knock over the water in his blindness. But his stomach lurched even before swallowing; not only was it stale, but ripe with mold. And… was that a maggot he tasted?

Dry-heaving, willing himself not to be sick, he grabbed the bowl and washed down his disgraceful meal… until he realized that it wasn't _water_ at all.

This time, Albert did vomit.

"You think you can break me?" he finally shouted, his voice cracking. "My brother was taken from me! What more can the likes of _you_ do?" He screamed out, "D'Artagnan, _why_? How could you do this to me? You swore you'd never leave me! Now when I call your name, you're not anywhere!" Practically choking on fresh sobs, the desolate young man continued, "I'm t-t-trying to hold on… just waiting to hear your voice… one word, just a word will do, to end this cursed _nightmare_."

* * *

"Sire… _please_. It _can't_ be. I know it isn't possible, as sure as I know my own name!"

But the King said heavily, "I am sorry, my old friend. But the evidence is overwhelming. I have been given testimony by countless witnesses from the market, including your Three Musketeers. They all gave the exact same story, and what is more, their description of the Fifth is unanimous. The identikit portrait they helped create shall be posted all across Paris."

"Your Majesty, while I certainly appreciate your granting my- _our_ \- Musketeers the opportunity to personally enlist these witnesses-" de Treville began steadily, yet urgently, before the King cut him off.

"No, de Treville. Do not think we were ignorant of the pain of these noble men, having to testify against their comrade right after losing another under such terrible circumstances. Their sacrifice shall not be forgotten, I assure you." He sighed. "These are indeed dark times, _Monsieur_."

The Cardinal said in his most oily tone, "Your Majesty, about my recommendation for the sake of your royal wellbeing-"

"Yes, Cardinal. I have certainly given it some deep deliberation." The King rose, looking stern. "And I have reached a decision. The remaining order of Musketeers shall not be disbanded."

The color drained from Richelieu's face, giving de Treville a twinge of satisfaction; under normal circumstances, he would be positively glowing inside. Even Athos, Porthos, and Aramis slightly raised their heads, half-puzzled, half-acknowledging.

"I don't see the logic in punishing the innocent," the King continued, "and that's why I am Louis the Just. You cannot, in good conscience, judge a perfectly healthy crop from one bad apple."

"Bad apple _,_ indeed," de Treville whispered.

Richelieu prodded, "But Sire, even the best- _looking_ fruit may well be wormy inside; the Fifth Musketeer himself is proof of that! Surely as a precaution-"

"I have spoken, Cardinal." The King returned his attention to the Captain. "However, I hereby command you and the Three Musketeers to do everything you can to find him. Leave no stone unturned, even if you have to search the whole of France and beyond! He is dangerous, quite possibly unstable. Because of his services to the crown, we shall make an exception to the death penalty. He will instead be imprisoned in the Bastille for life."

The squad bowed in somber acquiescence. As for Richelieu, he was practically bursting with silent laughter.

Even if his plan didn't go _quite_ as smooth as he had hoped, he was still several steps ahead of both the King and the Musketeers for the first time ever. It was a glorious start, no doubt the first step of a new order.

Best of all, he had finally gotten his revenge on that meddling pipsqueak.


	6. What Is Real?

**For this chapter, references were made to** **btamamura's** **fics. Enjoy!**

* * *

" _Albert… what are you doing?" D'Artagnan slowly inquired of his smallest comrade, who had suddenly drawn his sword. The brun's tone was a hybrid of confusion and alarm, for Albert had the gleaming point practically kissing his chest. "And why are you looking at me that way?" Indeed, the cold, steely touch of the sword was nothing compared to the countenance Albert wore, like nothing he had even given their enemies before. "You act as if you've never seen me in your life! What's the matter, my friend?"_

 _In a strange monotone, Albert said only one thing. "Goodbye, D'Artagnan."_

 _The sword was thrust into his heart as easily as hot butter._

Somebody was screaming. Albert realized _he_ was screaming. The windows to his soul were thrown open, even as the shrieks continued, but he saw nothing.

And suddenly, somebody was holding him tightly. He found himself cut off, curling into a repertoire of raspy, quivering gasps and convulsions.

A voice was speaking to him softly, the same voice who rubbed his back. It was speaking his name. Like magic, it gradually touched him, calmed him. Albert realized he knew that voice like the dawn, one whom he never thought to hear again.

" _Shhh_ , Albert… it's all right. I'm here," D'Artagnan repeated.

At last, Albert's breathing became as a whisper in the wind. It was really all over, just as he had begun to think he would never emerge. The nightmare must have gotten bored of toying with him, and spat him from its jaws.

He was instantly overcome by terrific sobs. "Oh, D'Artagnan!" he burst. He cast his gaze- like bottomless, overflowing pools- onto that brotherly face he so knew and loved, simply drowning in it. "I had the most horrific dream, you cannot _imagine_!" Releasing a final shudder, Albert clenched his friend's tabard like he never intended to let him go.

"Indeed?" D'Artagnan whispered.

Was it just Albert, or did the back of his neck feel strangely _cold_? Was his window open?

"Poor little Albert. So sad, so alone."

Why did D'Artagnan's voice sound so… disorientated, like he was speaking through a mouthful of mud?

"Dreams can be so real, can't they? And the darkness as chilling as the grave you sent me to…"

Albert's blood froze. He allowed himself to look up-

The skeletal creature before him grinned hideously. Maggot after maggot spilled from its hallow eye-sockets. A snake protruded halfway through the mouth like a tongue, creeping in a semi-circle.

" _No_ …"

Bony fingers, still grasping him, locked around his neck and began to stifle the renewed screams.

All around him flew the bodiless voices of the other Musketeers, rising by the second, overlapping in all their condemnation. " _Deception! Disgrace! Evil as plain as the mole on his face! An outrage! For shame_!"

They filled his ears like venom, seeming to last an eternity. But as soon as they had come, they faded, just as his vision broke into ink-blots that expanded and contracted-

* * *

-Until only the void remained.

Albert stirred from his position on the ground, the dull clank of his ankle-ball bringing him back to reality. He forced himself to sit up, grunting softly. With some difficulty, he touched cuffed hands to his neck, which throbbed. He realized that he must have been thrashing in his sleep, the length of the collar-and-chain not exactly designed for comfort. In spite of the cold of his environment, he was slick with sweat.

But if he had only just awoken… _and_ he actually experienced physical pain… that meant that all along-

" _It's all true._ I-I- oh, God, _I REMEMBER_!"

D'Artagnan was dead, and neither his friends nor God would be coming for him. And now he really did know why.

* * *

"That was a beautiful eulogy, Athos," Aramis solemnly remarked to their oldest fellow Musketeer. The journey to D'Artagnan's Gascony village, following the service at Notre Dame, had until that point been a silent one.

Athos nodded. "Well," he murmured, riding forwards on his horse for once- perhaps he did not even notice- "the good Lord knows every word was truth. I couldn't love D'Artagnan any more than my own son. I am only glad I got the chance to tell him so on numerous occasions."

Each of the Three Musketeers, during the funeral, had recounted their first (less-than-smooth) meeting with the then-new recruit; how they were, by bizarre coincidence or fate, scheduled to dual with him at the exact same time, but how the four of them had instead became united in fighting the Cardinal's Guards (D'Artagnan's first encounter with them, and his first experience of what almost immediately after became the sense of brotherhood the Musketeers always knew); how D'Artagnan only allowed the inseparable group to develop an even greater bond since then; and all his greatest triumphs and achievements, proof of his sheer mettle, honour, and unquenchable thirst of justice.

Nearly all of the Musketeers' friends and allies had attended, everybody who they had ever helped and/or who had helped them on their most memorable missions. Each of them had words to say of their fallen friend, as well. And each of these good men accompanied them in returning D'Artagnan to rest in peace in his native soil (in the finest coffin money could buy, paid for with the Royal Treasury at the King's insistence). Even the Queen had been granted leave from His Majesty.

In a sense it was their final mission alongside him, even if not quite with him. They would guard his body with their lives until he was back home safe.

Naturally, not a peep had been mentioned about Albert. Nobody had dared. But they could all _feel_ the matter, yet unspoken among them, nearly suffocating with a thousand questions that demanded satisfaction; the tension, shock, and horror rivaled their terrible grief.

It wasn't until days later- once the proceedings had at last been fulfilled, and finals farewells and blessings had been imparted unto their old friend with the heaviest of hearts- did the congregation at last give breath to what bordered on taboo. As there was no room in any inn for all of them, they continued to camp out under the stars as they had done since leaving Paris. (They did not stop very regularly on the way to their destination, nobody desiring to rest until their service to D'Artagnan was done).

"Albert was closer to him than any of us, and that's saying something," Aramis quietly commented, following a long period of silence in which only the fire's crackling could be heard. "Would that he were with us; I can only imagine his own tribute to D'Artagnan."

As the murmurs arose, Porthos nearly choked on his drink. "Aramis," he said in a tone that resembled a softly-brewing thunderstorm, "have the goodness never to mention _that_ name again, especially now of all times. In faith, I am astonished at your disturbing lack of discretion."

"Porthos, please. You know as well as I do that not only would I never dishonour D'Artagnan for all the world, but the absolute necessity of the subject. _Especially_ now, yes, in the presence of all our friends!"

"Aramis is quite right!" Captain de Treville spoke. "Albert has greatly contributed to touching the lives of everyone here. Their counsel becomes not only relevant, but imperative."

The voices of ascent exploded into a single cry.

Andre le Notre was the first to speak. "I've known Albert longer than anybody here. We grew up together. No matter what anybody says, nothing is ever going to convince me that he'd be capable of murder! He's the kindest, gentlest soul I know! I would gladly stake everything I have on that- my position as Royal Gardener, which I wouldn't even have if it weren't for him, _and_ my life itself!"

Loud applause followed this. "Arr, nobody be tellin' me he's a cold-blooded killer!" Sir Little John declared. "We escaped from prison together, an' he even insisted I be knighted by the King instead o' him. I'm right proud ta call Albert my good friend! Milkelie trusts 'im, too; any animal knows wot be the measure of a man better than any person!" The cow mooed loudly, echoing her master's sentiments.

"Albert helped me claim my rightful inheritance, and kept Richelieu from getting his despicable hands on it," said Count Anatole. "What's more, he adamantly refused a sou of it in return."

Louisont said earnestly, "If it weren't for Albert, I'd still be living as a lowly thief. He not only helped me take my wevenge on Wichelieu after losing everything to him, but he inspired me to get my life back on track and make an honest living. He even helped me when I first went into the restaurant business. I really do owe him everything."

"Albert helped me get back my dignity after foolishly losing my heart to that treacherous Milady de Winter!" the Gascon-born young man, Brizzle de Vijiac, spoke up. "What's more, he willingly forgave me for inadvertently becoming her spy and nearly bringing shame to the Musketeers."

"Can I even list all the times Monsieur de Parmagnan has gone out of his way to save the honour of myself and, more importantly, the Queen?" the Duke of Buckingham exclaimed.

"Quite right!" Anne of Austria replied, furious tears filling her baby-blue orbs. "This is all a dreadful mistake, I know it is! The Fifth Musketeer is my good friend and most loyal, devoted servant! There is something very strange about all this, and I intend to get to the bottom of it." She turned to the Three Musketeers and Treville. "I implore you, gentlemen- whatever all of Paris thinks, let not him be found guilty in the eyes of his own comrades! You must find Albert; only then, will any light be shed upon this wretched conspiracy!"

Aramis opened his mouth to answer, when Porthos let out a great yell and hurled his mug into the fire. "You know _nothing_ , any of you! Do you doubt the word of the Musketeers? Do you think us blind, mad, or liars? Had you been there-"

"If you are anything, it is a fool!" the Duke snapped.

"As I say, Buckingham, you were not there when D'Artagnan was killed! _None of you were_! None of you are in any position to-"

"Have a care, sir, you are addressing a member of the English Court!" Buckingham was practically an inch from the bulky gentleman's face, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "And I'll be damned if I just stand by while you insult Her Majesty!"

Another cry rang out, the source a shock to all. " _Enough_!" Athos thundered. He had been, as usual, facing backwards the entire time; only now did he turn around. "Porthos, I was there too! I saw what you saw! But cooler heads will prevail, mark my words." His eyes, so rarely visible, flashed. "Our queen is correct; something is rotten in the city of Paris! We are talking about a man- a brother, a gentleman, a scholar- who wouldn't dare deliver serious harm unto the worst of our enemies, even under the most direst of circumstances, such as to avenge another. Who can forget Albert's shattered state when we were all wounded in combat, nearly fatally so- how _adamantly_ he blamed himself, how he was unable to leave D'Artaganan's side? What about when D'Artagnan nearly died of that snake bite because of Milady's treachery; need I remind you how Albert did everything in his power to speed to his aid? His loyalty and love for us, especially D'Artagnan, runs deeper than you know; perhaps _you_ are the one who does not see, Porthos! It is rivaled only by his merciful, generous nature!"

"And then, there's the question of motive, isn't there?" Aramis further challenged. "What reason on God's green earth could Albert possibly have to do such a thing, eh?"

Porthos faltered, sputtering. "Well- perhaps after knowing so much shock, fear, and trauma, he finally snapped! After all, he lost his mother at a young age; he told us he couldn't smile for five whole years after her death. There is only so much the mind can take before-"

"You, of all people, pretend to be an expert on the workings of the human mind?" said Aramis coolly.

"Devil take it, Porthos," cried Athos, "do you _hear_ yourself?"

With an imperious gesture, the Queen commanded silence. "Gentlemen," she said firmly, "I wish you to impart the detail of that morning leading up to the sordid events. Particularly what Monsieur de Parmagnan was like."

The men obeyed, explaining to all their party how Albert was his usual cheerful self; the playful roughhousing between him and D'Artagnan; the meeting with the Cardinal's guards…

But it was what followed after the guards that the Queen was most interested in. "Let me see if I have this straight," she thoughtfully said. "Albert mysteriously vanished after you encountered the guards-"

"Yes, Madame; that is most strange in itself, as he always fights alongside us with his blunderbuss or one of his inventions at the ready."

"-He showed up again only once the guards are dispatched, all too easily as you say… and his behavior towards you is suddenly very hostile. Mere minutes later, the unthinkable happens."

Bowing, Aramis said, "All correct, Your Majesty."

"It's almost as if he was a completely different person!" recalled Porthos.

Nobody said a word. Athos, Aramis, the Captain, and the Queen all stared at him wide-eyed.

"By Jiminy," Buckingham whispered, as the murmurs were taken up on the wind once again. "Could it be…?"

Porthos blinked. "What?" he demanded.

"Porthos, I do believe you've hit upon it," Athos said quietly.


	7. Day of Reckoning

**I'm back. Been in a bit of a slump over the summer, but I think I'm good now. Updates may not happen for awhile after this, because classes have started up again.**

 **VERY dark chapter, please be warned! References are made to btamamura's stories** _Thoughtful Gift, Recovering From All Wounds, and Race For Life._ **Flashback is from the episode "The King's Complex", with a touch of my own head-canon thrown in.  
**

* * *

 **Flashback**

 _Albert relaxed in the field just outside Paris, while his new friend Little John received his knighthood from the King back at the Louvre._

 _The Musketeer was most content. Innocent folk had been freed from prison (himself and Little John included, and thanks to their efforts), the King realized he was not the smallest man in the kingdom after all, and the humble, good-natured Little John had been honored for his own miniature stature. Everybody was happy (except for the Cardinal) and all was well._

 _Beside Albert was Little John's beloved bovine, Milkelie, who comfortably grazed while she waited. She had taken quite the shine to Albert, and had even seen fit to express her gratitude with a great, affectionate lick. Albert was delighted; that simple gesture meant more to him than any honor or medal ever could._

 _Eventually, he was recalled from his reverie by the familiar and welcome sound of D'Artagnan calling his name. He blinked once, and looked up to see his friend waving as he headed in his direction. "Oh! Hello, D'Artagnan!" he greeted. "This is a surprise. What brings you here? Did all go well with His Majesty and Little John?"_

 _The brun nodded. "Sir Little John is having tea with the King. He sends his immense gratitude for everything you've done." Smiling, he added, "He seems a rather down-to-earth chap. Not that I know him well, but I don't think his promotion will give him an inflated ego anytime soon."_

" _Unlike certain Musketeers I know," Albert gently teased, eyeing the gleaming new medal decorating D'Artagnan's person._

 _D'Artagnan frowned, but found himself caving in to a small grin. "All right, all right!" he said, playfully knocking the brim of Albert's hat over his eyes._

 _As Albert straightened his hat, D'Artagnan settled down next to him, confirming his suspicion that he had sought him out with something specific in mind. "So… this is a nice place," he admitted, looking around._

 _Albert nodded, unfooled. D'Artagnan's tone was pleasant enough, but not quite as subtle as he likely hoped. Albert was no slouch at reading others, especially his dearest friends and brothers-in-arms… and he was even closer to D'Artagnan than the Three Musketeers. "But tell me, what's on your mind?" he casually inquired in a subtle-yet-direct maneuver of his own._

 _Scratching the back of his neck, D'Artagnan sighed and muttered, "Oh… well… look, Albert, you know that I know- as do the others- that you can hold your own just as well as the rest of us, if not better. You are the cleverest and most competent Musketeer of us all… and that's coming from me, so know I am serious."_

" _Thank you, my friend, but you really do sell yourself short. And that's coming from_ me _, so know that_ I _am serious!" Albert chuckled sheepishly at his half-joke. "Ok, that was bad, sorry. But you were saying?"_

 _D'Artagnan didn't smile, and Albert's concern grew. "The thing is, Albert, I don't want to insult you, but… well, quite frankly, you really had us worried this time." He was looking directly into the other's sky-blue eyes now, his tone unusually earnest._

" _Are you referring to my imprisonment in the Bastille?" questioned Albert softly. Albert had been taken by complete surprise by the enemy, which was a rare thing indeed. After the Guards caught him, he had been knocked out minutes after struggling to free himself, only to awaken dazed and confused in the Bastille where he was released from the sack by a sympathetic jailer.  
_

" _Well, yes, but that was the least of it!" D'Artagnan expelled an uneven breath and shook his head. "Last night… we were all together, precisely as it should always be. We were making merry together, just celebrating life and a spot of peace! We heard the cries of a seeming damsel in distress, and rushed into the line of duty as one! Next thing I know," he went on, "the four of us awaken in a crumpled heap early this morning… and down by one, our most valuable member!"_

" _D'Artagnan…"_

 _The slightly older man hurried on, "That's when I realized that it was a trap, a set-up! That we were down and you were missing… I didn't quite know if you had specifically been targeted, but I greatly suspected foul play. We combed your workshop, every room in the mansion, the marketplace… we grew so frantic as the day wore on with no sign of you, we found ourselves smashing our way into every shop and home in Paris like base thugs instead of gentlemen and Musketeers! I didn't let on to the others about how worried I really was, but I think we all were by then. Soon, my imagination began to get the best of me; I pictured your abductors inflicting all sorts of terrible harm on you, even leaving you for dead on some lonely road in the country. For all I knew, they had you drowned in the Seine! What if we were too late? How could I live with myself if-"_

" _D'Artagnan!" Alarmed, Albert placed both hands on his shoulders, calling his attention with a firm shake. "Steady on, dear friend! You are deathly pale and working yourself into a frenzy! You know I am fine; I am right here, look at me." He had never seen him like this before. Righteous fury was D'Artagnan's greatest passion, but he was never one to give in to panic! Here was a man who prided himself on fearing nothing… and Albert himself was the source of such distress; not because of him, but for him!_

 _Never had Albert been more deeply moved. And yet, he understood exactly how D'Artagnan felt. The loss of his mother at a tender age left deep scarring, and Albert didn't know it at that moment, but his emotional well-being would be put to the test again in a year with the near-loss of his dearest friends and brothers… on two separate occasions._

 _D'Artagnan allowed himself to be placated by Albert's firm, yet tender reasoning. A final shudder rippled through him, and he inhaled. "Well… when we found out they were arresting everybody shorter than the King, I understood. You can't imagine my relief! Knowing that you were safe after all… I mean, it still sickened me to know that someone like you had been dragged away and locked up like a lowly criminal, but if anybody's clever enough to escape, it's you… though we wasted no time in speeding to your aid, nonetheless. And sure enough, you managed to free yourself just as we managed to get ourselves thrown in!" he laughed ironically._

" _D'Artagnan, I had no idea I put you through so much turmoil! I am not offended at all; on the contrary, I can't say what it means to have such loyal, caring friends. Never once have I taken for granted or underestimated the significance of the Musketeers' motto, but hearing all this from you has driven it home like never before!" Albert closed his eyes with a half-sob, half-chuckle. "Is anyone as blessed as I, as blessed as we all are? Oh, it was foolish of me to be so caught off-guard by Milady," he admitted, "but I shall just have to be even more careful from now on. Nobody is perfect. She and the Guards had me right where they wanted me… they could have done far worse to me, as you said."_

* * *

Albert stared bleakly at his most cherished possession, which he held in his hands. It was the medal D'Artagnan had given him last year for his 21st birthday. He wore it always, safely tucked into the top of his uniform and next to his heart. On the gleaming surface of gold, the inscription (he couldn't read the words in his pitch-black surroundings, but knew them by heart, could trace every letter with his finger) read:

 _To a very dear friend_

 _Only you deserve this medal_

It was all he had left of D'Artagnan, whom he was now as firmly convinced as everybody else that he had murdered. He knew now it wasn't a dream at all, but the true visions plagued him nightly with stunning clarity that left his five senses reeling. It was always the same- the image of him emotionlessly slaughtering his friend… then him thinking he had awoken to a very-much-alive D'Artagnan's secure, loving embrace… but then the Devil would claim his due after all, dragging him back down, down, down into eternal inferno… concluding with him awakening for real in his own personal hell, not so much this damp, dark cell he was chained up in, but the fathomless remorse that would kill any lesser man.

All the evidence had been there from the start. And that opening scene in these recent recurring night-terrors was, as far as he was concerned, him reliving the missing piece to the puzzle. The picture was complete at last.

It didn't matter why or how anymore. Maybe after knowing so much trauma and terror, he just finally snapped without warning. He had been far more broken than he thought.

" _Albert… why are you looking at me like that?"_

 _(To a very dear friend)_

" _What's wrong?"_

 _(Only you deserve this medal)_

" _Don't you know me?"_

"…"

" _You don't have to do this, Albert. I would willingly die for you, but I can never bring myself to touch my sword against yours, not even in self-defence. Think about what you're doing, for your own sake, I implore you! My friend, please, stop!"_

" _Goodbye, D'Artagnan."_

 _His soul was forfeit. All around him, wicked voices chanting, booming over the cracking of whips: "This is the Day of Reckoning! Don't try to pray, now suffer and obey. Not even your tears can save you tonight."_

Screaming, Albert ripped the medal from him and threw it far. Landing with a dull clank, it was lost to the darkness.

* * *

Time had no meaning in this place. After awhile, neither did emotion; the mind can only take so much before it shuts down. He experienced each day merely existing, barely aware without feeling.

Albert neither knew nor cared when one day began and the next ended. He had long since become accustomed to the burning numbness in his neck, wrists, and ankles, not unlike his hollowed-out heart. It was nothing to him now. _He_ was nothing.

The Guards kept him fed on warm piss and maggot-ridden bread (when they were feeling generous, they supplied him with filthy water). Somehow, he managed to keep it all down. Basic survival instinct or sheer apathy? For his other physical needs, a bucket was supplied, which they couldn't be bothered to empty and replace.

When they were bored, and frustrated with his lack of pleading, crying, or any sort of response whatsoever, they would beat him. But no matter how severe the blows, he was like a toy whose mechanism was dead- no fun- so, they gave up soon enough.

But one day, when the head Guard came down with his lantern, a strange hissing sound greeted him.

"You just say something, 601?" He brought the light closer to the still figure curled in on himself.

A second time, more forced and raspy than the first. There was hardly anything human left. " _Kill me. Please._ "


	8. Remorse

**I went back and made a minor edit to the 'flashback' scene in the last chapter, adding my head-cannon as to how Albert got captured so easily in** _ **The King's Complex.**_

 **The poem recited by Aramis is actually the lyrics to "Somewhere Out There" from Don Bluth's _An American Tail_ (the end-credits cover by Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram, which I HIGHLY recommend checking out on YouTube). Although I don't have Albert singing it, I can picture him doing so with such a lovely, heartbreaking voice!**

* * *

For weeks, the petite Guard had been unable to function or think clearly. His concentration was in the chamberpot these days, and even his eating and sleeping habits were affected.

"What's with you?" his comrades would demand when his wandering focus and anxious demeanor gave himself away. "You've been falling down on the job a lot lately! You don't even put up much of a fight against those meddling Musketeers anymore. Ain't you got no pride?"

He couldn't very well half-fib and tell them that he was battling a terrible bout of insomnia, for the others would likely guess at the reason. "Just a little overworked, I suppose," he would say instead. "Been thinking of asking His Eminence to grant me a week's leave; I'm due for a holiday."

A holiday? His thoughts were so confused these days, he wanted to keep running and never look back! It would take much longer than a week to sort himself out.

He could lie to his comrades, but he couldn't lie to himself. He knew his affliction had nothing to do with his health. As vehemently as he tried to deny the voice in his head, it grew louder every day, to the point where he wanted to scream himself.

What? He was a solider, for God's sake, and a solider took orders… and sometimes, along with them, lives. It was all in the name of duty, right? Besides, the Cardinal was pleased with him!

Even though he never volunteered for his part in the Cardinal's plan. _Damn it, shut up, who said anything about asking for it? I just have to obey!_

The Musketeers were their enemies. Why should it be any skin off his nose if one of them was put out of action permanently? Even if it was by his own sword (he was a soldier, after all)! And why should he think twice about the infamous, infuriating Fifth Musketeer rotting away in prison for life? Served him right- always thinking he was so bloody clever, strutting around with that oh-so-smug smirk, hiding behind his inventions rather than directly facing them in battle like a man, cowardly bolting after each victory over them. He didn't even let the other Musketeers fight their own battles, always rushing in to show up his own friends and grab the glory for himself. He was no gentleman, no hero! Nothing but a pathetic, arrogant, dishonorable cheat! And his sauce wasn't even _that_ great! It was about time he was taken down by several pegs. He was only sorry he couldn't see the look on the twerp's face when he found the body of his comrade…

Yes. That was what he kept telling himself.

It was just the Three Musketeers now, easily dispatched in battle. The King hadn't even sent them on any missions since the murder ( _byyourhandshutupit'snotmurderit'sdutyIwasobeyingordersI'masoldierwhocaresit'saMusketeer_ ), proof that he either no longer trusted them or that his confidence in them was no more. And without their best swordsman and the so-called brains of the outfit, they knew they were finished; their lousy performance in duels gave themselves away every time, forcing them to retreat with what little dignity they had left. Through the Cardinal's influence, the Guards ruled the streets of Paris now, and neither citizen nor Musketeer was in any position to resist. And the Cardinal ruled the King, and therefore France.

Life was grand.

That's what he had been telling himself…

"Oi! You deaf? I _said_ it's your move!"

The little Guard blinked out of his trance, returning to the game of darts the off-duty platoon had been engaged in. "Yeah, yeah, keep your hair on," he barked in response, grabbing a dart from the table. Positioning it nimbly between his fingers, he tried to focus on the board-

"By the way, don't forget it's your turn for guard-duty at the Bastille tonight."

He fumbled the dart, the offensive end pricking him before letting it fall to the ground along with several drops of blood. " _Merde_!" he cursed, gripping his ungloved hand.

"You put in that request for your furlough yet?" somebody inquired flippantly.

The little Guard glared. "Yes- no- I don't know- I'll do it later!" Huffing, he soaked up the substance against his sleeve, the richer shade of crimson contrasting with that of his uniform. "Why do we even have to guard him, anyway? From what I've been told, he's in no position to escape!"

"It's the Fifth Musketeer. His Eminence doesn't want to take any chances." Smirking. "Besides, it's extremely satisfying to see how far he's fallen with each day in solitary confinement."

There was a chorus of knowing guffaws. The smallest Guard, who was the only one yet to see Albert in prison, curiously knitted his brow. "How's that?"

"Let's just say that, for a long time now, he's actually come to believe that he really did murder Monsieur D'Artagnan. He's in a bad, _bad_ way, I can tell you!"

"Yes, one would hardly believe that this is the same little pest who's always foiled us. Instead of pleading his innocence anymore, he pleads for death! It's all he ever says these days, actually… when he's not screaming out in his sleep, of course. The rest of the time, well, he might as well be in a coma; I don't think he can really see or hear us anymore. Hell, we can beat him to a bloody pulp, and he don't even resist or make a peep!"

The light-brunette Guard hurried to the door. "Excuse me, gentlemen, feeling a bit lightheaded… better patch this up." He was feeling sick, all right, but not from the sight or loss of blood.

He was flying down the corridors of the palace, past servants and courtiers, his boots emitting a series of frantic squeaks. He was soon outside, but didn't stop to even catch his breath, instead fleeing the grounds altogether.

The Three Musketeers spotted him from a distance. "Zooks, do you see that?" Aramis murmured, narrowing his eyes.

"Where's he going in such a rush?" Porthos rumbled.

"Definitely fishy," agreed Athos. "To horse, friends! Let's follow him… discreetly."

They proceeded to do just that. "Ever since we lost dear D'Artagnan," Porthos said heavily, keeping his voice low, "those fiendish Guards haven't failed to rub salt in our wounds. Mocking us over his death and Albert's 'treachery', insulting the name of the Musketeers. Well, gentlemen, they're right- without our friends, we've had it. Look at all the disgraceful losses we've suffered."

"That's enough, Porthos," Aramis told the gentle giant, sympathy underlining the sternness of his tone. "Do you think they would want us to give in to their taunts and slander? We mustn't give up on ourselves, even if only for the sakes of D'Artagnan and Albert. Our honor is at stake, and we greatly dishonor our friends if we fail to stay true to ourselves. Though things may never be the same again, we are still the Musketeers of His Majesty King Louis XIII! If we give up, give in to despair, then Richelieu really has won! Don't you see that this is precisely what he wants? If the King still believes in us, as we know all of our friends everywhere do- as we know D'Artagnan and Albert do- then to hell with the Guards! _We cannot allow our grief to turn into doubt_!" His voice rose more with each sentence, finally breaking at the end.

There was a moment of silence, as Porthos lowered his head with a deep sigh. "You're right, Aramis. You always were the wisest among us. But… damn it, Albert is _not_ dead!"

"No, indeed. I know none of us believes that for a second," Aramis said coolly, his nostrils flaring.

"And I was a fool!" Porthos sobbed. "I'll never forgive myself! How could I believe that Albert- oh, how could I not see that we were somehow deceived? If anybody deserves to resign from the Musketeers, it's me!"

Athos shook his head sadly. "We were each deceived, my friend, and each of us is guilty of believing in our eyes instead of our hearts. The only way to find out exactly what happened is to find Albert; only then can we prove his innocence. The King has postponed all missions until he is found, for however long it takes, and His Majesty will be the first to understand the truth."

"The Cardinal is behind this, that much is obvious now," Aramis whispered. "But everyone we know has been diligently searching for Albert, too. It's only a matter of time. All we can do is keep him in our hopes and prayers. The angels of the Lord are surely looking out for him until we're together again, and so is His newest sentinel D'Artagnan." He slowly and softly recited:

 _Somewhere out there,_

 _Beneath the pale moonlight,_

 _Someone's thinking of us_

 _And loving us tonight_

 _Somewhere out there,_

 _Someone's saying a prayer_

 _That we'll find one-another_

 _In that great somewhere out there_

 _And even though I know how very far apart we are,_

 _It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star_

 _And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby,_

 _It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky_

 _Somewhere out there_

 _If love can see us through_

 _Then we'll be together_

 _Somewhere out there_

 _Out where dreams come true_."

Dabbing at his eyes with a clean hanky, Athos declared in a voice tight with emotion, "That was beautiful, Aramis."

"It came to me during our journey to Gascony."

Meanwhile, several paces ahead, the smallest Guard was pulling up in front of Notre Dame.

"He's going inside the cathedral," observed Athos. "What in the world?"

Oblivious that he was speaking aloud, Porthos murmured, "If that Guard had a blonde wig, he'd be the spitting image of Albert."

He was, however, aware of the thunderstruck faces his friends wore. "What is it?"

"S'death… he _would_ ," Aramis said hoarsely.

Porthos blinked. "Eh? He would what?"

All-at-once realizing what he said, he repeated, " _He would_!"

But seeing that Porthos meant to charge, Aramis touched a firm hand to his bulky shoulder. "Patience! We can't just burst into the church flailing our swords! We'll wait here, and continue to follow him when he comes out. We need absolute proof before we take action, enough to equal or outweigh that against Albert."

Inside the holy edifice, the smallest Guard found himself closed off in the booth. He removed his hat, choking down large gulps of air; he wasn't sure if he had suddenly developed a random case of claustrophobia, but this stuffy, narrow space seemed to be closing in. He shakily inhaled once more, tugged at the collar of his uniform, exhaled, and closed his eyes.

 _What the hell am I doing here?_

But he knew the answer very well. It was too late to back out now.

There was the sound of a panel being pushed back, and the form of the priest could vaguely be made out through the screen. "Yes, my son?"

"I… I…"

The melodious hymn of the choir boys rose, faintly percolating into the confessional.

Collapsing to his knees, the Guard whispered, "I got in too deep."

* * *

"My God," he gasped, the lantern he gripped clearly illuminating this broken shell of a man before him.

His once-curly hair was an angry torrent of knots and disheveled, flailing strands. His uniform torn and filthy. Bloodshot orbs, underlined by heavy, maroon circles that made the Guard think of a traumatized racoon, emphasized the Fifth Musketeer's gaunt, sunken cheekbones. Patches of crusted blood mingled with thick scar tissue- bruises of varying size and shade with no interval; some were old and grayish-white, others were pink and still healing. An abstract portrait of the lowest human condition that, unbeknownst to the Guard, had nothing on his mind.

But his eyes were the most horrifying feature, by far. They offered only a glimpse into his soul, yet those windows- barren, frozen, diluted- said it all. If he was still there, he was beyond reach.

The Guard removed a glove and touched his forehead, sickeningly pallid like the rest of him. He recoiled at how clammy he was. Freezing. Burning. Freezing. Burning.

"You have a fever. It's out of control," the Guard muttered. "Cripes, how are you even still alive?" Pulling up his tabard, then the shirt of his uniform, revealed ribs making a spirited bid for freedom. The Guard nearly vomited. When he could speak again, he said weakly, "Look, I'm gonna… I'm gonna go get you something-"

He nearly jumped out of his skin as the living corpse suddenly grabbed him by the arm. A strange sound came from him that sent chills down the Guard's spine, until he realized that it was the Fifth Musketeer's _voice_ as if he had forgotten how to use it long ago. Stammering fervently, he hissed, "You must give me to them."

"What the hell?" The Guard tried to wrest his arm out of the other's grasp, but Albert clamped down painfully with strength that he shouldn't have possessed.

"Yes, _yes_!" Albert shrieked, the latter word being the key. "They're getting impatient! They come for me every night, but they always throw me back. Wasn't quite ready before, but getting closer. I hear them all the time, reminding me. Please, I don't belong here!"

The Guard nodded, grossly misunderstanding. "You're right, Fifth Musketeer, you don't belong here!" he cried. He threw himself down next to him. "You're innocent, all right? I'm the one who killed him, not you!"

The Musketeer was clawing at him now, eyes remaining void of lucidity but wild with anguish. His words came faster and more frantic. "Just cut me loose! My time is nearly up, my soul belongs to _them_! I can't live anymore with what I've done, I don't know myself anymore! My own blood must clean the blood I've spilled, for now the glory days are gone."

"What's wrong with you? Are you listening? I said you're innocent! The Cardinal _framed_ you!"

But Albert's pleas escalated to screams.

Minutes later, the Guard bolted from the front entrance. From where they hid around the corner of the intimidating structure, the Three Musketeers saw him leap onto his horse, practically kicking the startled creature in his haste to get moving. They galloped straight back in the direction of the Louvre.

"What do you make of that, chaps?" Athos queried. "Looks all hot and bothered, doesn't he?"

"Follow him," commanded Aramis. "Remember, recon only."


End file.
